Twisting the Thumbscrews
by Writer Awakened
Summary: A story in which Makalov gets it. Badly. Watch him...STEAL his sister's panties! Watch him...TAKE Astrid's money! Watch him...get stinking DRUNK! Watch him...get his FINGERS CHOPPED OFF! Watch him...get REVIEWS! :D Come see...MAKALOV BEING MAKALOV! :D :D


_Twisting the Thumbscrews: A Tale of Karma_

Or,

_Why People Now Call Makalov "Mack the Knifed"_

-

My dear readers, today I will tell a tale of a man who learned a painful lesson. Note that this story has much **horror** as well as much **humor**.

One day, our hero Makalov stumbled into the barracks of the Royal Guard of Crimea with two fingers missing. This is why.

-

Our hero Makalov was, among other things, a compulsive gambler, a hopeless drunk, a "pink-haired whippersnapper" according to one old dude, really bad at chess, awful with any weapon but a sword, a "two-bit roasted onion eater", ugly as shit, and dumb as a blooming stump. Somehow this made attractive women like him. Well, _one _attractive woman, at least. He could have set aside his reservations about losing his bachelor's freedoms and abandoned his life of debauchery for a comfortable life with a young, loving, and doting wife, beautiful Astrid, who was also, incidentally, of quite noble stock.

But no, Makalov was _dumb_. He was also really bad at gambling, but several years ago he won big in a game of Mage Cards simply by sheer dumb luck and won an obscene amount of money, and so he birthed in his mind the idea that he was really good at gambling and did it more. He just _knew_ he was going to be the richest man in the world someday. As it turned out, he never won any substantial sum of money ever again, he wasted most of his winnings on a lot of drink and several whores, and the rest he lost either throwing dice or playing that stupid "hide-the-ball-under-the-cup" game. Makalov invariably believed he had picked the right cup. He won the first time he ever played that game, so of course he birthed in his mind the idea that he was really good at it. Nope. He never won that game again. Ever.

So, our poor, dumb, deluded hero Makalov woke up one day, deep in debt, with only a few hundred gold in his pocket, which he was determined to turn into thousands with a few throws of the dice. He was partial to a certain gambling den that someone on the street once referred him to. This particular establishment was the seediest in all of Crimea, and Makalov either did not notice or did not care that everyone inside had at least two weapons on them, and one particularly large bloke had three, one of them being a ten-foot spear slung over his back.

Despite his massive, humongous debts, the danger of his situation, and the fact he was recovering from a remarkably uncomfortable rash in a very embarrassing area, Makalov was in very good spirits when he arrived there that afternoon.

"Well, gentlemen. Shall we roll the dice, then?" Makalov said, shrugging casually. He stood at the foot of the long stair with his hands on his hips. The den was a dark underground room lit only by two small lanterns. There was a big table in the middle for cards, a bunch of crates in all corners of the room, and a lot of guys either sitting on a crate or standing. One of them spat. Makalov recognized a few of the gents as the people who lent him money frequently. He waved at them.

"You know, ehh…we need our money tomorrow, huh?" one of them said. He wore a strange hat over one eye and smoked a huge cigar. His voice was deep and raspy.

"Absolutely," Makalov said, without a care in the world. Two glasses of wine earlier in the day had left him feeling chipper as a wood chipper. After all, he was going to win a few thousand gold that day. "Gents, by the end of the day, you'll have all the money you're due and _then_ some. No one's gonna beat me at dice today. I'll even take you all on in tiddlywinks! I got that lucky feelin'! Hey, anyone have one of those fine-looking cigars over there?"

"You do know that with our, ehh…5% interest, your debts come out to…ehh…twenty-six thousand, huh?"

"No problem! That's—wait, what did you say?" Makalov could have sworn the guy said "twenty-six thousand."

"Twenty-six thousand," the guy repeated.

"Y-You mean twenty-six _hundred_," Makalov said, chuckling. He scratched the back of his head, wondering how any man could be so abominably stupid as this loan lion tree stump, confusing thousands with hundreds!

"Twenty-six _thousand_," the guy said.

"A-Ah, n-now just so we're clear, that's…"

"It's when you write a 2 and a 6, see, and then you add three zeroes. That's, ehh…pretty common knowledge around here, huh? And we don't take too kindly to people who talk back to us. Is that not correct, Tommy Three-Thumbs?"

A man on the other side of the room, who must have been eight foot four and full of muscle, spat. "You got it right, boss."

"I-I see!" Makalov said, with all the confidence of a man with no confidence. "Phooey, that's no good. Well, it just so happens that tomorrow I have, an, er…a, uh, big windfall! Cash money, you see. I got the dough!"

"Just so you know, we, ehh…got the thumbscrews ready if you are unwilling to acquiesce to our, ehh…demands that we have asked of you in return for, ehh…our services loaning to you. Is that not correct, Jimmie Chestnut?"

A burly man sitting on a crate nodded and spat. He had a ten-foot spear slung over his back. "That's right, Willy Billy, you gots it."

"So that's twenty-six thousand by tomorrow," the man called Willy Billy said. "We hope that you…ehh…have acquired the money by then, huh?"

"S-Sure! Of course! I'm good for it!" Makalov said. He laughed nervously and showed a smile full of teeth.

"Good, so let's get us to some gaming," Willy Billy said.

That day, Makalov borrowed four thousand more gold from Willy Billy and promptly lost it all playing his favorite dice game, Chinchirorin, also known as "Coelacanth" and "Try Not To Suck." He kept rolling three ones and having to pay triple. Somehow, he always lost playing as he did with the usual suspects every time. The three hundred gold he brought with him got slapped down during a heated game of Mage Cards. Makalov would have sworn that his three Empresses would beat anything, but Old-Balls Eddie had three Emperors in hand and Makalov found himself _dead broke_. The idea that he would be just plain _dead_ never crossed his mind, although if someone had told him that, he would probably have said "Well, at least I won't be _broke_ any more."

That night, Makalov tried fruitlessly to get money. Marcia called him a bell-jingling cow plop and wouldn't give him a silver. He implored Astrid for the thirty thousand he needed, but all Astrid had was thirty hundred, which was of course not the same thing. Makalov took all of it and thanked her kindly. As usual, he snuck into Marcia's room and found two hundred more gold in her undergarments drawer, and took a handful of her undergarments to sell to random guys, which got him a hundred more gold. He tried Astrid's room, too, but she indeed had given him _all_ the money she had, and her undergarments were apparently locked in an iron chest under her bed. When he couldn't find anyone else to give him more cash, he went to the nearest tavern and got stinking drunk. He got down to his last hundred gold and said, "Oops."

Then he said, "I'd better shave thish hundred moneys so I can winner it at the balls in the cup game tomorrows."

Then he bought another drink with his last hundred. "I hate thosh damn loan lions," he said. "Even lo' they givin' me…lots of…moneys. Shtupid loan lionsers. Boo loan lionsersh! Yaaaaaaay wine! And beer!"

Makalov passed out and someone had to carry him back to the castle. Someone probably would have stolen his money if he had any left. Someone did rip a button off his overcoat, but he didn't notice, and it was fake gold anyway.

So, our poor, dumb, deluded, panty-raiding, binge-drinking hero Makalov woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. He was surprised to realize he was sleeping on his bed in his room. Why that surprised him, I do not know. All day he walked around, scratching his head, trying to think of any way he could get his thirty-thousand gold. He failed. All the while, he listened to Marcia mumbling something about sticky-fingered drowning butter-eating cheese weasels with breadsticks. Occasionally she muttered something about kettle-brained underwear-snatchers, but no insults or accusations had been thrown at anyone specifically. However, one innocent-looking serving boy from the castle did receive the evil eye when he passed by her.

That afternoon, Makalov went to the usual seedy gambling den like a man marching to the gallows. He might have just not gone to meet the loan lions but then he knew they would come find him in the barracks and then they would beat the ever-loving stuffing out of him with stale bread for welshing on his debts. They would, of course, completely understand that he needed more time to get the money, as long as he was genuinely apologetic and dutiful. After all, they were entirely reasonable fellows, right?

Well, let it be said that they didn't completely understand.

"I'll have the money tomorrow, I promise! I swear on all my honor as a knight of Crimea! Your money is as good as yours…er, mine. My money…is yours. Honest!" Makalov was on his knees. The other gamblers had filtered out of the underground den, but the three loan lions all stayed around, watching Makalov closely. The one called Jimmie Chestnut blocked the stairs behind him. "I'm good for it! I'll get it tomorrow! Really! Please?"

Willy Billy wasn't buying it. "Tommy Three-Thumbs. It seems we have an, ehh…fellow who doesn't have the, ehh…resources that we require. I think it's time we, ehh…taught this gentlemen a lesson in how things work in the world of the loan lions. The thumbscrews, please."

Tommy Three-Thumbs, who actually had only one thumb, handed Willy Billy two identical small metal devices that looked like a bunch of tiny vices all in rows.

"I-I am terribly sorry I'm so late with the money, sir," Makalov said. He started to shake. "I-I promise I'll have the money, honest, and not just thirty thousand, I'll get ya forty thousand, see my wife—well, she's not my wife, really, but close enough—is rich, she can get as much money as you need but it might take a while to get here from Begnion, so pleeease forgive meeeeeeeee!"

Willy Billy slapped him.

"What are you, someone from something like an, ehh…video game? Huh, Ronnie? Stop yer crying, eh?"

Makalov gulped. Willy Billy laid the thumbscrews on the big table and hoisted Makalov into the chair. Jimmie Chestnut stepped up behind him and clamped down on his shoulders.

"We are most displeased that you could not, ehh…fulfill your end of the bargain. Like an unruly child who has, ehhh…misbehaved, it is our duty to make sure that you are, ehh…properly disciplined."

Makalov didn't know what Willy Billy was going to do to him, but it couldn't be that bad. After all, he was a Royal Knight of Crimea, and Royal Knights of Crimea were proud, honorable, stout, and most of all, tolerant to pain inflicted by evildoers. And honorable.

So Willy Billy put Makalov's hands in the thumbscrews and had Tommy Three-Thumbs twist the screws around his right thumb, wherein they pressed against it really, really hard.

Makalov screamed. Loudly. "Mommyyyyyyyyyy! Aaaaaaaaaagh! Helllllllp it hurrrrrr-urrrrr-urrrrrrrrts! Waaaaaaaah!"

Tommy Three-Thumbs tightened the screws around his right ring finger.

"No! Noooooooo! Stooooooop! Please! Owwwwwwwwww! I'll do anything, anything, please, stop! Anything!"

Anything within reason. Royal Knights of Crimea had honor, after all. Tommy Three-Thumbs tightened the screws around his right middle finger.

"Pleeeeeeeease stop! I'll sellllllll! Plllllleeeeeeease. I'll sell—I'll sell you my wife! She's hot! She'll do what I say! You'll like her! Please! No, stop. You can have her. Please, please stop, please." Makalov was sobbing hysterically.

Tommy Three-Thumbs tightened the next two in succession. Makalov screamed and thrashed about, but Jimmie Chestnut held him down in his chair. Willy Billy just watched. Makalov gasped for breath.

"Please…stop…now," Makalov said when he found his breath. "I'll sell…my sister. Pretty. Young. Mildly amusing. Virgin…probably. Worthless…no, no, I mean, _price_less! Priceless. No money. Value. Good. Money. Just...please, stop this."

Instead, Willy Billy ordered Tommy Three-Thumbs to work on Makalov's left hand, thumb then ring finger then middle finger. By the time the tenth finger had hit the clamping screws, Makalov had almost passed out from the pain. He found himself laughing for some reason, muttering something unintelligible. Not just his hands but his entire body ached. He tried to curse the loan lions but all that came out was something about slimy smiling eel-eaters.

"Now you see, ehh…why we are so serious about collecting what is rightfully ours, huh?" Willy Billy said. Jimmie Chestnut pushed Makalov towards the stairs. "We respectfully request that you, ehh…have our thirty thousand by tomorrow, or, ehh…something unfortunate and highly regrettable will occur, huh?"

Makalov left the seedy gambling den sobbing and delirious.

-

All of Makalov's fingers hurt immensely after that. But that's not how he _lost_ two of his fingers. He _did_ lose two fingers, however, and this is why.

-

Makalov made absolutely certain that darkness had fallen completely before he crept onto Baron von Wasserwurst's palatial Crimean estate. He had planned it perfectly. Some drunken hobo had drawn him a painstaking map with charcoal, which went into so much detail that it showed where the front door was and where the back door was, and the hedges were squiggly lines. The "you are here" mark was also quite useful to Makalov. It should be quite apparent by now, dear reader, that Makalov was, indeed, stupid. But in case it was not already clear, I do now say that Makalov was, indeed, stupid. This shall be important. Maybe. An argument could be made that the pain in his fingers was making him delusional, but that argument would be thrown out of court on the grounds of being wrong. Makalov was just dumb.

Makalov knew where the guards were and when they patrolled the back of the manor, so he waited until the patrol passed, then he snuck up through the opened portcullis into the dimly-lit garden, about to run to the cellar door. He paused to contemplate what a beautiful word "cellar door" was. Then he thought that maybe if he addressed Marcia as "Kind, beautiful cellar door sister" she would be more inclined to give him money. Or a glass of wine. Or five. Or something he couldn't find by snooping around her room.

Makalov was hiding behind a row of large bushes, about to move out and run towards the door when our poor, dumb, deluded, panty-raiding, binge-drinking, contemplative, small-bladdered hero Makalov realized he needed to take a piss. While he did, he wondered what kind of name "Wasserwurst" was for a noble. When he tried to zip up, his zipper got stuck, even though he had no idea what a zipper was. He cursed quietly and said to hell with it. Woe is him, and all that.

When he was sure that no guards were around, Makalov dashed out from behind the bushes and ran down the small set of stone steps to the wooden cellar door under the manor proper. The drunken hobo had said that inside the cellar was the promised land (which Makalov took to mean there was a secret passage to a room with money in there) but the cellar door was locked most of the time. Hence why the hobo couldn't get it. As luck would have it, the door _was_ locked. A better man than he might have left well enough alone and tried to find another place to rob, or perhaps tried to find an alternate place of entrance into Baron von Wasserwurst's estate. But of course, Makalov was a legendary idiot, and so he tried to break the door down. He took a few steps back and dashed against the door, barreling into it with his shoulder.

"Ow!" he screamed when he hit the door. But the door rattled a little, so he took a few steps back and did it again.

"Ow!" he said again. Makalov did not notice the voices of guardsmen saying "what the hell was that?" and "don't disturb me, I brought my girlfriend here," and "w-why are you actually doing your job, Westwood, t-that's wimpy, roar?"

The door shuddered even more after the second rush and so Makalov drew in breath, stepped back until he was almost up the stair, and charged a third time. Finally, the door burst off its hinges and fell inward, taking Makalov down with it. He said "Ow!"

Meanwhile, the voices outside were growing louder. Makalov only then heard them talking, although he couldn't see, because his face was planted against the ground.

"Lace up your britches, Morric!" one of the guards said.

"You better have a good reason for getting me off my girlfriend, Westwood, and for your information those bushes were _incredibly_ comfortab—"

"Oh shut it!" the guy called Westwood said. "Don't tell me you didn't hear those loud _thumping_ noises!"

"Hear them? I was _making_ them! I told you, you better have a good reason for getting me off my girlfr—"

"I said cram it, Morric!"

"W-we don't get paid enough to actually work, guys. We're too tough to do work, roar," said a third guy, and the others yelled at him to "shut up, Sergio."

Makalov finally decided it was time to get his lazy ass up. He hauled himself up off the ground and didn't realize that his britches had slipped down his legs. Then he saw where he was. The cellar was moderately large and lit dimly (much like Makalov himself) but just when Makalov was about to curse his luck, he realized that aside from a few crates in the far corner, there was nothing in the room but large casks laid side by side in neat rows with cute little spigots just waiting to get sucked by him.

"I am the luckiest bastard in the world," he rasped, wanting for breath. Then he heard the voices, perilously close.

"The noise sounded like it was coming from the wine cellar," Westwood said.

"Do you know what my girlfriend was doing to me? Oh my _goddess_, I didn't know any human being could be so flexib—"

"Shut it, Morric! There's someone slinking around the wine cellar."

"Man, I d-don't really want to do my job, doing my job is for losers…"

"Stop acting like a big shot, Sergio. You know you're just scared," Westwood snapped.

Someone started blubbering. Makalov knew the voices were coming close, but he was paralyzed trying to decide whether to hide in the crates or just start drinking. Finally he decided that if doing one was good, then doing both was better. He loosened the spigot on one of the wine barrels and started gulping down as much wine as he could; and it was really good wine, too!

When he heard the footsteps descending the stair outside, Makalov knew it was time to haul ass. Against the back wall in the corner, conveniently in a place that was not well-lit, sat a few large crates enough to hide a man. He made to run when he tripped over the legs of his breeches and hit the ground with a thud. He cursed, stood up, hiked up his pants, and dashed towards the darkness. He was about to pry the top off one of the crates (while imagining it was a woman's top) when Westwood, Morric, and Sergio burst into the room. Thinking quickly, Makalov decided to squeeze between the wall and one of the crates, scrunch himself up, and hide in the shadows. And he did.

"Where's the intruder?" Sergio said, crying. "I-Is anyone here? Oh, this is stupid, let's go, I want to go I want to gooooooo, uh oh I gotta go—"

"Shut it!" Westwood yelled. "There's someone in here. There has to be! Right? What else could have broken down the door?"

"It could have been the wind?" Sergio offered.

"My girlfriend and I have been going out for _three weeks_ and this was the _first time_ she—"

"Both of you blokes shut up!" Westwood yelled. "Now, what did you say about the wind? Where was the wind, did you see it come through here?"

Makalov inched to the edge of the crate and peered around the corner. The man named Westwood was blue-haired, with three swords and a blue cloak with a demonic fish-man imprinted on it, Morric was fat and crazy-looking with a funny hat and wild arms, and Sergio looked half-dead, but he was tall and had a belt full of throwing stars.

"B-Boss, I-I think I just pissed myself," Sergio said.

"If you could only _see_ my girlfriend, _maybe_ you would understand why I _didn't_ want to stop riding that pony and—"

"WOULD YOU BOTH PLEASE SHUT THE FRICK UP?"

There was a long silence.

"Boss, I'm all wet," Sergio said at last. Westwood beat him viciously.

"Shut up, you stupid ugly idiotic fish-tailed bloke! Both of ya!" Westwood yelled. "Now, have we decided whether it was an intruder or the wind knocked down the door?"

"W-Well, I-I think it was the wind. The wind is tougher, roar."

"My _girlfriend_ wouldn't yell at me like that…"

"I'm still not convinced that it was the wind!" Westwood yelled. "I don't remember any wind. Hell, sometimes I don't even remember my name. How does that work?"

Meanwhile, Makalov, sitting in his dirty, dark little hiding spot, really wished he could drink some wine. You see, our poor, dumb, deluded, panty-raiding, binge-drinking, contemplative, small-bladdered, easygoing hero Makalov decided that while his aching, throbbing fingers were bad, and almost getting caught was badder, booze was _good_, and therefore it behooved him to think positively in anticipation of getting booze, and this was a defense mechanism against…well, himself. Over the course of the three guards' conversation, Makalov had muffled a hiccup, stifled a fart, and swallowed a belch. The sneeze, however, came so suddenly that he could not stop it.

"What the hell was that?" Westwood said, looking around. Makalov cursed.

"I-I think that w-was the w-wind, boss. The wind's tryin' to be tough and tell us w-we shouldn't be takin' our job so s-seriously, roar."

"Yeah, it was just the wind," Morric said matter-of-factly. "My _girlfriend_ could have told you that _lying down_. She probably _would_ if you asked her, if she's still there in the bushes, oh I hope she is because I was _just_ about to ride that—"

"ALL RIGHT!" Westwood yelled, and put his foot down. "Yes, I heard that one, too. The wind, right. I thought you blokes were just yanking my chain, but I guess not!"

"My girlfriend was yank—"

"Say it and I'll kill you," Westwood said.

A few seconds later, Makalov watched the three guards walk out of the cellar. He let out a sigh of relief and a fart. When he was certain the guards were far away, Makalov went to town. He hauled the fallen door up and rested it against the open doorway to stop the cold air from rushing down the stairs into the cellar. Then he set to work getting hammered, being careful not to step in Sergio's piddle in the process.

After continuously chugging down different wines from five different casks for a half-hour, Makalov completely forgot why he had come to the cellar in the first place. He started singing _Crimea, O Crimea_ off-key, but after every line he hiccuped and had to take another drink. His fingers did not hurt any more. He liked suckling on the spigots of the casks because he didn't have wine spilling onto his clothes that way. At one point he genuinely believed he was the king of Crimea and he was walking the streets of his city, and people were throwing cash at his feet and women were throwing _themselves _at his feet and the big bad, loan lions were his court jesters and everyone bowed down to him because he was awesome. Then he hit his head against a cask while stumbling around, and suddenly he was back in the cellar. He laughed because he liked having the power of teleportation. Eventually he had enough wine and decided it was time to move on to greener pastures.

So, our poor, dumb, deluded, panty-raiding, binge-drinking, contemplative, small-bladdered, easygoing, forgetful, shit-at-singing, teleporting hero Makalov fell down, and then staggered to his feet. He decided it was time to go home, but he wasn't about to go home empty-handed. After all, what was the point of going to a wine cellar if you didn't get some wine? So Makalov ambled over to the crates, pried open the top of one, and took two empty glass bottles from inside, which he filled with the best wine he had tasted. Then he walked towards the door, threw the door aside, and tried to walk up the steps to the courtyard. _That_ didn't work. Instead he fell on his back and all his wine spilled. He was about to get up when he heard a familiar voice at the top of the stair.

"So it wasn't the wind after all, huh? Someone _was_ trying to steal some bottles of wine! I knew it! The whole time!"

Everything was a blur for Makalov after that. He could have sworn Westwood dragged him inside the manor, and oh it was a beautiful manor, and of course he _demanded_ that Westwood give him a full course meal, because after all, what good is wine without roast chicken? Instead he dragged Makalov to some royal throne room or something and some guy on the throne said something about thievery and guilt and how they punish thieves in Baron von Wasserwurst's lands, and he remembered a dark room and some mean-looking guy with some sort of meat cleaver, and then there was pain. A lot of pain. A _lot_ of pain.

So, our poor, dumb, deluded, panty-raiding, binge-drinking, contemplative, small-bladdered, easygoing, forgetful, shit-at-singing, teleporting, in-considerable-pain, missing-both-index-fingers, hungover hero Makalov woke up in some grassy field the next morning and had no idea where the hell he was. He found his way back to the city eventually, but since his clothes were all dirty, children mistook him for a hobo and threw some very disgusting things at him as he walked by, some of which he could not even recognize, but was disgusting nevertheless. Some called him "Stumpyhands". Others inexplicably mooned him. When Makalov finally returned to the barracks of the Royal Knights of Crimea, a lot of people yelled at him for being late. His fellow knights' jests were witty and cruel, the eight fingers he had left hurt tremendously, and he realized, with no small amount of dismay, that he still owed the loan lions thirty thousand gold.


End file.
